


we are all just trying to be holy

by Ellis



Series: and no one could sleep [1]
Category: Being Human, Being Human (UK)
Genre: Gen, spoilers for 5x05!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-06
Updated: 2013-03-06
Packaged: 2017-12-04 10:43:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/709877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellis/pseuds/Ellis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No care. All responsibility. This is how it goes. This is the mantra, the words that make every passing incident easier. </p><p>No care. </p><p>All responsibility.</p><p>And yet.</p><p>And yet.</p><p>And yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we are all just trying to be holy

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own Being Human, nor do I own Dominic Rook or Natasha Myles. Or "Snow and Dirty Rain" by Richard Siken, which is where the title for this piece comes from. 
> 
> This one is all about spoilers for the penultimate episode because, well, BECAUSE HOW DARE YOU GIVE ME AN EPISODE (AND THEN A FOLLOW ON WEBISODE) LIKE THAT AND EXPECT ME TO BE HAPPY ABOUT IT? AKA: giving my faves character development beyond the standard Minor Character schtick is going to give me FEELINGS.
> 
> So, YEAH. Spoilers! You have been warned.

_Be gracious to me, O Lord, for I am in distress; my eye is wasted from grief; my soul and my body also. For my life is spent with sorrow, and my years with sighing; my strength fails because of my iniquity, and my bones waste away._

— Psalm 31:9-10

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The cleansing ritual begins in (her) blood.

 

And the final weight of understanding, of realising the true weight of his loss, begins when he cannot close her eyes.

 

Dominic Rook is not a sentimental man. He does not have time for _sentiment_ ; in a world where he sees the darkness and the monsters, where there are Type Ones and Type Twos prowling at every corner, where everyone is a potential threat, sentiment is something he cannot afford.

 

No care. All responsibility. This is how it goes. This is the mantra, the words that make every passing incident easier.

 

No care.

 

(He hunts down Hettie and questions her; he and his father keep Bobby imprisoned for thirty-three years; _you are a monster, you cannot be trusted_ —and yet had he thought of Bobby as a friend? A companion?—no—he locks vampires in cages, werewolves in high security cells, teaches children to do as he does, binds recruits in rope thicker than their wrists and says _if you do not get out of this, you will die_.)

 

 _All_ responsibility.

 

And yet.

 

And _yet_.

 

 _And yet_.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He compartmentalises everything. “It’s survival,” his father says, even though he’s been dead for eight years. “Survival of the fittest. You see? We may not be very high on the food chain, but we are _survivors_.”

 

He remembers when he didn’t see, and didn’t understand. When there was no light to reveal to him the true horrors of the world—and then there was, and it was blinding. And bloody. And brutal.

 

(The vampire, he recalls, had been starved for days. Understandable then, really, that it tore his mother’s throat out within seconds. Not much of a fight. Not much of anything.

 

His father says, “she barely felt a thing,” and thirteen-year-old Dominic Rook nods numbly, fists clenched, body trembling. “No care,” says his father behind him, framed in the doorway like some sort of _fucking_ god. “ _All responsibility_.”)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He compartmentalises everything—and this—this is why he lingers after Tom has left; this is why his fingers shake and his hands almost form fists, this is why he wants to choke Tom and say _you do not know her, you can do nothing to help_. But Tom knows more than most people: he knows her name. He closes her eyes. He says, “I want to do something to help,” and, “she should get a gravestone.”

 

These are all things Dominic Rook knows. He understands from Natasha that Tom is—Tom is a werewolf, and _predisposed_ to aggression, but generally fails to succumb to the dominant traits of the Wolf. Tom wants to take care of people (Natasha). Tom functions almost as well as a normal human being. Tom has a job. Tom took care of Bobby before his saddening demise. Tom is…

 

…less deserving of a pen in his eye than most, Rook thinks. He remains on his feet, hands in his pockets, a dull sensation of dread and something else he cannot place simmering away in his stomach.

 

And there Natasha lies, eyes now closed, throat cut clean, a wound inflicted by her own hand. No bite marks around the throat or neck, all indicators that she bled free without a parasitic vampire feeding on her as she lay dying. This should reassure him somewhat; the truth is that it doesn’t.

 

He fidgets. He closes his eyes. He opens them and the room is still the same, her body is still there, this is still a scene he will have to process and clean up.

 

Movement upstairs indicates Tom is in his room.

 

Dominic breathes in. Out. _All care. No responsibility_.

 

In the stillness that follows, he speaks.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

None can attest to the same level of immaculate standards as Dominic Rook.

 

He _is_ immaculate: in presentation, in ambition, in drive. His suits are pressed and hand tailored. His shoes are shined until he can see not _only_ his reflection in them, but also his very soul. His files are ordered alphabetically based on the severity of the case and the danger of the Type. He oversees the filing system personally; he is the first one into the department and the last one out of the department. He has a rapport with his staff; he has a strained rapport with his creatures.

 

(‘His’ creatures. Not possessions, not things: _his_. In one way or another, they are his responsibility. _All responsibility_. He does not let himself get attached. They are monsters. But they are _his_ monsters.)

 

He is so immaculate that when it comes to finding a suitable care home for Natasha, he has a list ready within minutes. What to do with the child awkwardly strapped in the passenger seat of his car is another matter entirely. Logic and necessity and protocol dictate that Social Services must be contacted, a suitable cover story thought up, and yet he is instinctively wary of conjuring up a story that the child can potentially pull to pieces.

 

All that hard work ruined by a child—this is his first thought. Or so he tells himself. In truth, in memory, it is: _you poor thing_.

 

You.

 

 _Poor_.

 

Thing.

 

(Later, of course, this will never have been his first thought. His first thought and therefore first priority will be to finding her a suitable place to be looked after and cared for.)

 

He will think of something for Social Services to gobble up and put in a file. Whatever lie he comes up with will become her personal history. No care, all responsibility—and yet here he is, the burden of another life thrust upon him.

 

He is godlike in this moment, he realises. He can _make_ her.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The truth is this: when he finds her, her name is not Natasha.

 

When he finds her, she is a child orphaned by vampires, the lone survivor in a place that reeks of death.

 

When he extends his hand towards her, silhouetted by his colleague’s torchlight, _no care, all responsibility_ is still something he believes in.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I remember you,” she says.

 

She is ten years old and has been at her latest care home for a week after running away from her foster family twice, allegedly convinced they were trying to kill her. He wonders. He investigates. He finds no proof of vampire activity. He still wonders. And he is here to—to conduct an investigation on the care home, to ensure that she is safe, to ensure that it is up to the Department of Domestic Defence’s standards of safety, to ensure that—

 

“I’m sorry,” he replies, a little strained, more than a little uncomfortable with the fact he’s in the kitchen, peering into the cupboards, assessing the food, writing notes, and she’s standing by his legs, peering up at him with childlike certainty and conviction. “I don’t think you do. You see, we’ve not met before.”

 

She juts out her bottom lip in what he assumes is a pout. He blinks. “No, I _remember you_.” She squints up at him. It dawns on him that she’s trying to find a nametag of some sort.

 

Slightly more relaxed, he closes the larder after writing a note to himself about the amount of chocolate digestives the care home stocks. ‘NOT ENOUGH’ he writes in immaculate penmanship, the product of hours spent trying to achieve perfection as a child.

 

“You don’t,” he repeats, smiling with false cheer. “We’ve never met.”

 

Natasha narrows her eyes. She folds her arms across her chest, the tilt of her head implying that she’s not at all impressed with him. Well, Dominic thinks, he’s not impressed with her either. In _fact_ —

 

“What are you doing here?” she asks. “Why are you poking around?”

 

“I’m…” He peers at his black book. Peers at ‘EXPENSIVE ENERGY BILLS’ and ‘DOES SHE HAVE A BEDROOM OF HER OWN?’ and then back at her. Frowns. Forces himself to smile _again_. “I’m just looking around.”

 

“Are you going to adopt someone?”

 

“No,” he says, a little too quickly for his own good. “No, no—goodness me, no!” He laughs like it’s the funniest thing he’s heard in a while (it is; with his schedule he has no time for himself, let alone a child), and almost goes to pat her on the head. But then he recoils and remembers his place and thinks to himself that physical contact would be _foolish_.

 

“Why not?” Her eyes are sharp, inquisitive. She asks too many questions.

 

“Because,” he replies, struggling for words. His eyes map out the kitchen, the escape routes. He could get away in three seconds, six at a push, yet this tiny child stands in the way and he hasn’t got the heart to escape because that would mean pushing her to the floor and, more importantly, drawing attention to himself. “I’m a busy man.”

 

“What do you do?” The tilt of her head is back. She leans back somewhat, trying to see all of him. For no reason he can think of, he stoops slightly, making it easier for her, then realises what he’s done and curses himself.

 

“I work for the government,” he answers. He didn’t come here for a game of _Cluedo_ —

 

“Doing what?”

 

“Things. Paperwork.”

 

By all accounts he shouldn’t be here. He’s meant to be in Aberdeen, confirming reports of a nest of vampires, and yet he’s here in a care home surrounded by children and untidiness and smiley face stickers and disorder and chaos.

 

“Oh,” she says. As if it’s as simple as that. And suddenly he wants to kneel down and ask _do you remember your real name?_ or _do you remember what happened when you were younger?_ but he doesn’t move.

 

“Yes,” he says. “Quite. If you’ll excuse me, I have to…” He inches around her as he speaks, trying desperately to avoid touching her. “I have to… go and see the lady in charge.” He can’t remember her name. “Mrs…”

 

“Mrs Emily,” Natasha provides helpfully, grinning up at him. “She says we should call her Emily. Do you want me to take you to her?”

 

 _No_ he thinks, but his mouth says, “yes,” and then before he knows what he’s saying his mouth is making other noises that come out as words and he’s asking, “is this place adequate enough for you? How are you finding both your company and your surroundings?”

 

As though he _cares_.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She is fifteen when she says: “Did you go to fucking _Eton_ or something?” and “What are we—like—friends or something?”

 

To the first question he responds with a firmly worded “Is my education any of your concern?” and to the second: “I’m merely interested in your day to day life.”

 

They’re in a café in Barry because this is where she lives now. Three foster families later and she seems to have found one she meshes with enough that she goes to school and lives a relatively normal life. He’s pleased.

 

Nobody at the department comments when, every week, like clockwork, he vanishes for three hours a day to attend to Personal Business. Most of them know not to comment or speculate; Dominic Rook isn’t married, an employee comments, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t got _other_ things on his plate.

 

They speculate. Lover, family in hospital, mistress, dirty little secret. All wrong. All hopeless. Idiots.

 

She’s hunched over a plate of what she describes as the ‘typical English breakfast’, consisting of beans, toast, and a whole host of other things. He thinks he spies a sausage half-hidden under a badly cooked egg, but he could be mistaken. Truthfully he doesn’t want to look too closely because the thought of what it’s doing to her insides repulses him.

 

He’s satisfied with strong tea, no sugar, idly swirling it around in its cup with a teaspoon.

 

“Why are you interested in my day to day life?” Natasha fires back. She’s become decidedly more high-spirited in recent years. He resists the urge to roll his eyes, and instead fixes her with his standard Work Smile.

 

“Because,” he says, and leaves it at that. The teaspoon is removed from the tea and set on the saucer. He raises the cup to his lips, watching her from across the table.

 

“You’re a really shit liar,” she says. Her lip is curled, the disdain evident. He reminds himself that she is a product of an unstable childhood despite his effort to bring stability into her life. There’s only so much power the head of a secret department can hold over numerous care homes over the years.

 

“I’m not lying,” he counters. He smiles, wolf-like, showing teeth. “A lie is a truth disguised as something else in order to shield the recipient _from_ the truth. If I were indeed lying to you, you should assume that I am lying to deflect you from the truth of the matter. If I have not bothered to summon the energy to tell even the simplest lie, you must therefore assume that I am _not_ lying.”

 

Natasha’s bottom lip juts out. He’s reminded of her at ten years old. She frowns at him, sizing him up. Then: “Do you still work for the government?”

 

“Yes.” He takes a sip of tea.

 

“Do you still do paperwork, or is your job more interesting now?”

 

He smiles against the rim of his mug. “If I told you that I’d have to kill you.”

 

There’s a beat. Natasha stares, momentarily slack jawed, then her frown deepens and she rolls her eyes. “You wouldn’t.”

 

He shrugs. “Perhaps not.” Another beat passes. “How is your education progressing?”

 

Natasha’s eyes darken. “I fu—”

 

“Language,” he warns softly, keeping his tone pleasant. “If you’re going to use profanity, you must enunciate clearly and leave the intended recipient in no two minds about the reason for your use of profanity.”

 

“I fucking hate it,” Natasha spits, grumbling. She doesn’t drop the g, which is reason enough for him to smile, pleased. “The people—the… the _work_ —GCSEs are bollocks.”

 

“That may be so, but they are key in your progression from childhood to adulthood.” He sips his tea again, meditative. She’s studying the necessary three—English Literature, English Language, Mathematics and Double Science—as well as Art, ICT, and Drama, he recalls.

 

He shouldn’t know this information. _No care, all responsibility_. And yet here it is, at the forefront of his brain, remembered as if he’s remembering where he parked his car.

 

“So I’m still a child?” Natasha’s head tilt is back. Her eyes flash. She licks sauce from the corner of her mouth, her shoulders tense.

 

“In the eyes of the law, yes,” he says carefully, slowly. “You’re not yet eighteen.”

 

She snorts. “Believe me, I know. When I’m eighteen, I’ll be _far_ away from here.”

 

He is more troubled by this statement than he lets on.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When he gets her into the car, his face and suit are streaked with blood but she remains unharmed. This is the imperative for now. He doesn’t pocket the cross until her seatbelt is fastened and the doors are locked; only then does he slip it into the inside breast pocket of his suit, fasten his own seatbelt, and calmly drive away from the scene of a massacre.

 

The rosary beads around his rear view mirror are a source of comfort as he drives. He glances at them from time to time, almost as much as he glances at the bloody, hollow child in his passenger seat. He should have a child seat, he thinks lamely. He should have something—

 

The girl won’t be with him for long, so why does it matter? (It doesn’t.)

 

He does not think of how she listened to him and closed her eyes, or how she buried her face into his neck and made no noise as he drove the monsters back. He does not think of her arms around his neck, the way he held her as though she was precious, more than a life to be saved. He does not think that when he hands her over to Social Services, it will be the last time he sees her.

 

It occurs to him then that they will question why she’s so thin, so bloody, why her hair is so matted. They will question her clothes, her history, how he came to find her.

 

He cannot have questions.

 

And so he peers at her as they drive through the night, peers at her sleeping features with her face pressed up against her seatbelt, peers and thinks and racks his brain for ideas.

 

He will clean her up, perhaps take care of her for a few days—no more. And then he will have had enough time to think of a plausible story; he will contact Social Services; they will take her from him and keep her safe.

 

She will not remember a thing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“ _Blast_ ,” he says. Swearing in front of a child is not recommended, nor something he approves of. “Drat, fiddlesticks—please, can you—no—that’s not— _this is a bath, not a place to abandon all aspects of civility and manners_ —”

 

The child isn’t listening. It’s taken him over an hour to run a bath and undress her; he thought about placing her in the shower but that would require more effort. A bath is easier, and he is suddenly grateful that he had the foresight to acquire a flat with both these things when he originally purchased the place.

 

Kneeling next to a bath is also not recommended, as Dominic is quick to realise. Having gingerly wrestled the girl into the water, she has decided she’d rather be anywhere else and is fighting his every attempt to rid her of dirt. Her current method of attack is throwing herself at him and screaming, all while sloshing great waves of water over his crisp white shirt and grey trousers.

 

He is most certainly Not Amused.

 

Yet neither can he blame her. He holds her by the shoulders, remembering himself, remembering that she can be no older than eight years old, that she may _never_ have known a normal life. He counsels himself on these facts over and over as he lulls and cajoles her to sit down, to let him wash the dirt away, to let him wash her hair.

 

“If you do this for me, you’ll be in for a jolly good treat!” He smiles so hard he thinks his mouth might fall off—a flight of fancy, but one that seems as though it will genuinely happen to him.

 

She peers at him from under her long fringe. He has not yet heard her say a word, and finds himself holding his breath in the hope that she may utter her name, or even a single syllable. Instead she is silent.

 

To be expected, he supposes, given everything she’s been through.

 

“Yes, a _jolly_ good treat!” he continues, surrendering and allowing her to remain standing so long as she ceases to splash him. For now it seems as though she’s quieted; he leans over and squeezes a glob of body wash onto his hands, rubbing them together in order to get the liquid to bubble up.

 

Her eyes are watching his every movement: sharp, attentive. Hollow.

 

Carefully, as though he’s approaching a wounded bear, he shows her his hands, palms up. When she doesn’t react, he takes this as an acceptable sign, and begins to lather the substance over her arms, across her chest, dabbing a bit on her cheeks.

 

She stares at him. He stares back, forcing himself to keep smiling.

 

“That’s not so bad, is it?”

 

A minute shake of the head. _Progress_ , he thinks. This is a good start.

 

“It’ll make you nice and clean,” he adds, false cheer oozing from his every pore. “I’ll wash your hair after this, just to ensure all of you is clean and free of dirt and other things, and then I’ll check you over for cuts and bruises. Protocol dictates that I should do that first, but, well, given the state of you, a bath was higher up on the list of things to do, to be utterly frank with you. I’m not a fan of baths myself. But you seem to be enjoying it—”

 

“Close your eyes,” she says softly, still staring at him. “Don’t look at the monsters.”

 

It takes him a fraction of a second to put two and two together, and then he nods and smiles again. “Yes, that’s right. Good girl. That’s right.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Her file lists her name as Natasha Smith. She is listed as seven years old, parents’ deceased, found wandering the streets of London alone by a member of the public whose name is not mentioned.

 

He calls her Natasha because she is a gift. The thing that should not be but _is_. Out of the darkness and into the light. Into safety.

 

She is clothed, washed, bathed and fed when Social Services come to take her.

 

_No care. All responsibility._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

His father dies in the time that he knows her. And Natasha, with her sharp insight, picks up on it immediately. She’s eighteen and he’s here under the guise of another government visit but really he’s got a card in the boot of his car and he’s emotionally compromised.

 

“You’re off,” she says, swinging her legs like the child she no longer is from where she perches on the railing. “You’re—you know.” She wrinkles her nose, hair flying in the breeze. “ _Different_.”

 

He brushes it off with a flippant comment. “Bad day at the office.” And a smile. Hands in his pockets, he hesitates by the door of his car, closing it forcefully, lingering. “I hope your day is marginally better than mine.”

 

She grins cheekily. Her face lights up when she smiles; he suspects saying ‘people would find it far more preferable were you to smile more often’ is crossing a boundary into _all care_. So he doesn’t say anything, merely tilts his head.

 

“It’s my birthday,” she remarks after a beat, legs still swinging. “I’m an adult.”

 

“Ah,” he says like he doesn’t already know, like he hasn’t signed her card ‘Fond regards, Rook’. “Well, then. Happy birthday.”

 

“Thank you.” Her smile is radiant, then it slips—she looks thoughtful. “We’ve known each other for years now, and I still don’t know your name. That’s not exactly fair, is it?”

 

A beat passes. “Dominic,” he says eventually, his next breath of air feeling sharp in his lungs. “My name is Dominic.”

 

“Do you have a nickname? Dom? Dommy? Nick? _Domino_?”

 

He frowns in distaste. “ _Absolutely_ _not_. Dreadful names— _horrible_ names. No, no, no; I’m afraid I’m simply not one for nicknames of any kind.”

 

“Same,” she quips, jumping off the railing and landing like a cat. “Are we going to the café?”

 

“If that’s what you’d like.” He hesitates for a second, watching her inch towards the passenger side of the car. “Unless you’d prefer somewhere else? You are, after all, an adult now.”

 

Natasha raises one eyebrow in his direction. “Café. For old time’s sake.”

 

He doesn’t give her the card. He says not a word about the death of Edward Rook. He carefully spells out why her plans to move to London aren’t plans at all, more hasty dreams given more thought than usual, and proceeds to emphasise why they won’t work. And then he looks at her, _really_ looks at her, and says:

 

“Do you remember what happened when you were a child?”

 

And she looks at him and, without missing a beat, says: “Yes.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She’s thirteen when she comes up with the idea that she wants to do what he does.

 

He’s dropping her home after having seen a shady looking fellow following her on her way home from school.

 

The car ride is silent; he thinks that watching a man you only know vaguely well throw another man against a wall and whisper what you can only conceive as a very dangerous threat into his ear (and this is from the way the man pinned up against the wall seems to pale and curdle and seem desperate to get away) will leave you at a loss for words. He regrets his course of actions, but… needs must.

 

“I want to do what you do,” she says suddenly, twisting in her seat. “Work for the government.”

 

“No,” he says instantly. “You’re far too young.”

 

“When I’m older, _stupid_.” She glowers at him and he refrains from rolling his eyes.

 

“Name calling is not a way to win an argument, Natasha—”

 

“You _are_ stupid. Why would I want to work for the government _now_? I’m thirteen, for God’s sake!” Her glower is intensifying. He wonders whom she picked that up from.

 

“Now, now, I’m not—I was merely—”

 

“I’m still in _school_.”

 

“I’m thrilled to say that that observation _didn’t_ slip past me,” he retorts icily, nostrils flaring as he pushes himself back into a state of calm. She is a child, he reminds himself. Circumstances being what they are, she could still be suffering from a lot of trauma, though her psychological reports don’t seem to suggest that. Trauma manifests in different ways, at different stages. She is a child.

 

“You wear a suit and drive a Lexus,” she finishes. “It seems like a good job.”

 

He thinks of his creatures and finds himself smiling. “You need drive and tenacity, two things you seem to possess in abundance. _And_ —” he shoots a look at her, “—skipping school is no longer an option.”

 

Natasha glares at him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She begins her training at nineteen. It’s unofficial, all off the books, but he brings in Domestic Defence resources to help with it anyway. He ties her to a chair in a prison cell with rope thicker than her ankles and informs her that if she cannot escape, she will die.

 

(Of old age, presumably, because he will not let her join the department, and he will certainly not let her die in this room, but what she doesn’t know certainly won’t hurt her.)

 

In the art of passing by unnoticed, she is sorely lacking. He drills her to spend every day walking around on her tiptoes until she makes no noise. When she’s not stealth training, he has her organising files under strict supervision. After the first week of training, he gives her a carrot smoothie and, with an incredibly straight face, says:

 

“You are what you eat.”

 

She laughs at him. Says: “What the fuck does that make you?”

 

He is Not Amused.

 

When he’s not training her, he’s teaching her how to write a CV. She doesn’t want to go to university, she says. She’s cut off all ties with her foster family. She wants to do what _he_ does. He humours her: types up her CV on his work computer, prints it out, lists her talents and subtly implies she has no faults.

 

She even finds a place to stay—that is after he informs her that under no circumstances whatsoever is she ever going to stay with him. He only has one bedroom: it would be utterly impractical.

 

(“Didn’t you let me sleep in your bed when I was younger?” she asks.

 

Tight-lipped, he says, “No,” all the while wishing that had been the case.)

 

So she finds a room to rent, close to his flat for safety purposes. She even gets a job at the Post Office.

 

All in all, he’s pleased at how easily she ingratiates herself into society.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 _No care, all responsibility_ becomes their slogan. Their motto. Their Words To Live and Die By.

 

Their joke.

 

Said with a wry smile, a fleeting grin, a passing salute.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Her first mission is her last mission.

 

This he realises in the corridor, stooping slightly as he has always done for her. There is tension: she is glaring, he is impassive. He realises now that he has made a mistake; that she is far too full of feeling to be appropriately distant from her cases. That she is not just bait, that he cares about her. That he cannot compromise his department. That he cannot compromise _her_.

 

And yet.

 

And _yet_.

 

“You made sure I was safe again and again,” she’s saying. Her body is alert, taut. Her eyes are boring into his. “What—all that effort and you’d just _kill me_?”

 

No, he thinks. And yet here he is with a man flanking him and Captain Hatch at the end of the corridor. She has no escape. Here he is ready to give her to the wolves because she’s compromised, because he’s just as compromised as she is only he can’t admit it.

 

He meets her gaze, unwavering. Can’t say anything because this is _no care, all responsibility_ and to change that would be to change _everything_.

 

He inclines his head. Moves past her: resolute, silent. Leaves.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And in the end it’s just him and her body and all of her blood.

 

“No care, all responsibility,” he says into the silence, his eyes transfixed on her face.

 

He thinks of the child she was, alone amongst the dead, and the woman she came to be. Her tenacity, her spirit, her _spark_.

 

“How wrong I was.” He is the last bastion of humanity, the last hope it has against the darkness, and here he is standing next to her body and her blood and he has failed her irrevocably and he cannot take it back.

 

There’s a lump in his throat. He swallows it down with the taste of bile and bitterness.

 

“I am so very, very sorry.”


End file.
